


Days, Hours, Minutes

by dosymedia



Series: Dreamers [1]
Category: Inception (2010), TiMER (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Depression, M/M, Major Illness, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dosymedia/pseuds/dosymedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Timer counts down the days until its wearer meets their soul mate. Arthur's has mere months when he's diagnosed with a fatal illness. Knowing he has little time left, he must choose between losing love or never knowing it at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Days

182 days. Six months.

Time itched underneath the metal band that strapped a ticking bomb to his wrist. It was Mal that convinced him to do it, to get a timer: a watch that counted the days, hours, minutes until the wearer met their soulmate. He reconsidered this choice, amongst others, like the mourning were supposed to. Wax on, wax off. Life was misery. Life was pain. Life was short; but measure the waking seconds and they stretched into eternity. Time everlasting, a point on the horizon too minuscule to see. Walk long enough and soon the gravel road turned into the steps to Forever. 

Mal and Cobb, as one, should have been _forever_. 

Enter Forever, the inside of a polished wood box in New England, sun glinting harsh on its glaze through clouds picked out an animal barrel. A portrait of Mal from the summer, scorched by its golden frame, smiled at the fat creatures parading past her funeral. The priest struggled to be heard over cicadas in the fields. He spoke of time and its slippery skin, of its design within life’s framework. 

The Timer, Mal said, was how she and Cobb met. She liked to tell the story: 

On the first day of classes she was branded an untouchable for her familial connection to the professor. A halo of empty seats surrounded her when the clock hit twelve. Her father, the professor, introduced himself just as a late student entered. The boy tried to apologize for his tardiness, but her father, already casting him as a delinquent, waved him off and told him to take a seat. The boy sat beside her. They spent most of class catching glimpses of each other’s hair emblazoned by stray sunlight, of their fingers tracing their desk’s wood grain, and of illegible scribbles to feign interest in the lecture. 

When class was dismissed and they stood to part ways they met each other’s eyes and an 8-bit track marked the beginning of their life together. With this as her evidence and a smile as extra incentive, Arthur caved. He told her, “It can’t hurt— ” he’d never felt a more excruciating pain than he had during that procedure.

At the time, he didn’t know another bomb was ticking on his person. 

391 days: Thirteen months. 

Amen. 

Rest in peace. 

Good bye forever.


	2. Days

Nash was rancid milk, bottled and loosely capped, left in the back of the fridge. Arthur never liked him, but the reliable architects were dead. Nash wasn’t. Another fault of his, according to Arthur, and the third strike against him. Nash spent his first on the dream’s mediocre performance; it was a spartan opera house (supposedly) of Parisian design. It missed its grandiose arches laden with myth in the details,  its sweet velvet hum, its thick fabric and instead carried a film of Nash: a sort of sticky, granular grime. Nash spent his second strike on the dream’s procedural ruin. The world heaved itself loose in bursts, rasping coughs that rattled bones. A wood beam cracked and spit splinters like porcupine quills, Arthur shielded against them using the clipboard he carried. Several pierced through the back, poking through the program notes clipped to the board’s front-side.  

The place was falling apart. Hardly a surprise. Nash was bound to mess up. Arthur tossed the ruined clipboard aside. He had no need to play the part of stagehand anymore. The minute hand neared twelve; it was time. 

The reverberations from the hall dulled with each step down the Grand Stairs, twin staircases in mottled cream stone lined by thick Romanesque railings. They opened to the lobby, descending to plain marble and peaking underneath the end of a celestial mural. Extended examination of that mural morphed it from a Michelangelo to a Pollock; further evidence of Nash’s poor taste in art and poorer vision. 

The subconscious locked eyes with Arthur for uncomfortable durations as he strode past to the staff door. Arthur couldn’t be sure whether they stared at him because they suspected him or because they found him a distasteful accessory to their location. Either way, he was glad to be out of their scrutiny and instead at the stoop of a narrow concrete passageway to the basement. A cold draft urged him back the way he came. 

Cobb was supposed to be here with their bounty, the secrets obtained from the chasm below the theater. Instead, murmurs bounced from beyond the winding stairs. Arthur took them in twos, steadying himself when a step wobbled. As he descended, Cobb’s words came clearer. There was a forced evenness to his tone, “You need to let me do this.”

Cobb faced the east wall, his hands outstretched in front of him, his eyes widened, pupils tightened. “I’m not the one you’re hurting,” Cobb said. Arthur pulled his gun from his waistband and stepped from the darkness, submerging himself in the molten silver of angled moonlight, to face Cobb’s captor — Mal. 

Mal stood, silhouetted by a ring of hot blue. Wicked glints in her eyes revealed the remainder of her soul. _Beautiful_ Mal, smiling like she never used to, pointed a smoking revolver at Nash’s corpse. A red clutch was held to her hip. Its bulge told him everything he needed to know. Their clients’ trade secrets were stolen out from under them. Cobb looked apologetic. Arthur, surprised. Nash looked dead; the bastard chose the wrong moment to die. 

“Hello Arthur,” she flashed an expression he couldn’t read and then turned the nozzle of the gun towards him. 

_Click._

He woke to rolling hills dipped in Monet’s palette, a sharp sting haunting his breast.

 


	3. Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Cobb prepare for the next segment of their job.

The Tic-Tac Club, as they came to call it, was a jazz lounge nestled inside labyrinthian back alleys. Skyscrapers loomed along the perimeter of the dreamscape. Dark satin of viridian green sat underneath heavy smoke. Fedoras, kitten heels, and pinstripe shoulders swam through the dense fog. As they passed a cigar girl, she lit a patron’s cigar. Its burning tail formed a copper beacon. Cobb coughed, “I went too heavy. The place has gotta be warmer — more inviting,” but just enough to lure their target in, the stage show disguised the real trap. 

“You handle it,” Arthur said. Cobb worked in the abstract; he molded dreamers’ experiences through subtle manipulation. By small degrees, he altered the club’s atmosphere until it rang like a stranger’s greeting.

Minutia was Arthur’s art. He finalized the engravings in the bar's front panels, the shape of the gold knobs, the stitching in the curtains, and the typeface on the menus. What Cobb put down, Arthur detailed, polishing into perfection. Between the seams of the club were exits, shortcuts, and get-aways for use during their heist. 

Arthur fiddled with the embroidery on the dinner napkins when the house lights dimmed, forfeiting to the stage. The curtains whisked open, revealing the shapely silhouette of their singer, a dame built from men’s fantasies. One step forward, her heels were the only sound. Two steps forward, a leg entered the light. Her leather toe shone in the spot. Three steps, Mal was a weapon of destruction in a red dress, red gloves, red lips. A glance in his direction struck him dumb. And then she opened her mouth to lash the killing blow, her song slicing the silence into quarters. 

She was menace incarnate, but there were no plans to foil in the Tic-Tac, just the hopes that Cobb could dream without her — could _live_ without her. 

Fifty-six days. Would another stand beside her then? 

But if he never met that other? Would they even notice the perpetual tick halt? What would they do? Cry for a minute, mourn all that could have been. But after?  

 

_D r e a m,_

_dream, dream, dream_

_When I want you in my arms_

_When I want you and all your charms_

_Whenever I want you_

_All I have to do is_

_d r e a m_

 

The hollow words of the haunted. Mal’s yearning was unyielding. Constructed outside her true desires, it was syllables whispered by the ghost kept close to her lover’s heart. It was then that he knew. He couldn’t do what Mal did to Cobb. She died. She left Cobb to reconcile a future without her. It was never her intention; she couldn’t predict her fate, but intention wasn’t of consequence to him. What mattered was that his other’s guaranteed future was decades of fighting their loneliness. 

Arthur knew his numbers. Whilst others were forced to face such circumstances, Arthur was given an opportunity to decide: would he inflict the same torture on his other or would he avoid such ruin?

He chose the latter. 

Arthur refused to be a phantom chained to this world by heartbreak. He wouldn’t allow tragedy into his or his unmet other’s life. Let them accept disappointment, it was a decent replacement considering the alternatives. 

 

_I can make you mine_

_Taste your lips of wine_

_Anytime, night or day_

_Only trouble is_

_I'm dreamin' my life away_  

 

With Mal as his specter warning, he’d do right by his other. He would remove the timer. 

 

_I need you so, that I could die_

_I love you so and that is why_

_Whenever I want you_

_All I have to do is dream_

_D r e a m,_

_dream, dream, dream._

 

* * *

 

Cobb cleared his throat, slouched. That meant he had unpleasant news. So, Arthur looked at him and put his hands in his pockets. He was ready to listen. 

“We need a new maze — and I can’t build it,” Cobb said. 

Arthur nodded, “Then I will.” It wasn’t his forte, but he could do it. _You can do anything_ , his mother whispered. _Almost_ , he replied, _Some things are too big, Mom_. The timer synced to his heartbeat. Every other second was marked by the ebb of his blood flow, a conscious effort controlled through his breathing. He used easy, slow, stable inhales — exhales to counteract the shock Cobb delayed. 

He turned his eyes on the model maze sitting on the table nearby. It was plastic painted matte white, a technical alias lacking in heart. It couldn't convey the emotion Cobb painted it with: cozy warmth, exclusiveness. Yet, it was a tight knit string of corridors tucked inside a maze and lined by oppressive buildings. It would be difficult to find an alternate solution equal in quality, but already Arthur rearranged walls in his mind. What he lacked in creativity, he made up for in efficiency. 

Cobb shook his head, “We have to bring someone in.” There it was — the unsavory truth. Arthur raised a brow, parted his lips to list his reasoning against Cobb’s decision, but it was a decision immune to rebuttal. “We need two levels,” he said, “Two levels, two dreamers.” 

“It’s messy bringing someone in this late.” For proof, see Nash. 

“We don’t have a choice,” Cobb said, “We do the job next week or they cut us out.” 

Arthur paused, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then said, “You know how I feel about him.” 

“Not Nash then, someone else.” Cobb’s eyes flit to the floor as he searched their scrawl, the thin scratches made from dozens of shoe heels grinding into its surface. “I know someone,” Cobb nodded, indicating the decision had been made. 

“Do I know Someone?” Arthur asked. Cobb shook his head. 

And then Arthur’s stomach rolled in his mouth, urged him to vomit. 

Seeing his expression, Cobb added, “He served with us — different squad. He’s a good guy,” he paused, “ _Professional_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far. Though I can’t promise regular updates, the least I can tell you is that this story _will_ be posted in its entirety one day. I’m including the second and third parts of this trilogy in that statement as well! The story is written, it only needs editing. Thank you again for your patience!


	4. Days

 

**Days**

 

“Can this wait?”

Cobb told him no. They had to do it tomorrow, “After this, he heads to backwaters in Kosobo. We’ll lose our only chance. It’s gotta be tomorrow.” 

Their only opportunity _should_ have been in five days, but their target’s plans changed, thus _their_ plans changed. Knowing this, Arthur nodded, resigned. “I’ll be ready.” The phone chirped as the screen flashed red. He turned to the technician holding his left arm up by her fingertips. “I apologize. Work,” he clicked the power off, “You were saying?” 

The woman — a nurse of dark complexion dressed in mint and white — was hesitant. Her tongue passed over the gap between her front teeth as she considered Arthur and his request. What she said was not what she wanted to tell him, but he was glad she kept her sentiments to herself. “This is ir-re-versible.”

Arthur nodded, “I know.” 

“We can’t, under _any_ condition, install a new timer after the procedure is completed.” 

Arthur repeated himself. 

“…We’ve got counselors. If you have doubts —“ 

“I don’t.” 

“Tch,” the technician straightened, forcibly removing the disapproval from her voice. “The procedure will take five and a half minutes. The area will need time to heal though, a week at least.”  

He hadn’t believed her when she told him severance would be quick, but the bond he thought unbreakable was, in reality, a string deftly cut with a flick of the wrist. It was then pulled out from under his skin like a worm coiled deep. Four minutes was all that was required. The remaining one minute and thirty seconds was reserved for antiseptic, bandaging, and his choice of a heart-shaped cake pop, courtesy of the TiMER corporation. 

“Chocolate raspberry with chopped walnut or strawberry shortcake with pink sprinkles?” Arthur rubbed the bandage wrapped tight around his wrist, he turned an incredulous brow at the woman. 

“A difficult decision…”  

“Tch,” the woman cocked her hip, her hand hugged the climatic point of its robust curve. “We don’t get many of your types here.” Truth was, few were dissatisfied with their TiMER. Even fewer disconnected when they were so close to meeting their other hand. 

The nurse added a pregnant pause. By her imploring look, he knew she hoped he would reveal what circumstances led him to his decision. So, Arthur contributed his own pause, his eyes following the lines of his bandage before turning back to speak. “Chocolate raspberry,” he said, “Please.” 

He bit off half of the cake pop, revealing the red flesh encrusted by a hard shell of dark chocolate. Its acetate wrapper was crumpled and flung into a waste bin by the clinic door. Behind him, he heard his technician murmur to another, “The removal…” to which he could imagine a gasp and a quick reevaluation of his retreating form as the clinic doors swung closed. 

The nurses bought into the candy-colored propaganda of their own company. They believed the implementation of a timer to be a rite of passage and bawked at an existence without this reassurance. The ticking hands of their TiMERs dissuaded them from seeking heartbreak, so what could they know of love’s agony beyond the old films? What would they say, he thought, if they had to make the choice between a lonely life and a pain shared between two? If love was the joy saturating every surface of skin, then would they turn that love into a disease that seeped through the dermis and turned the tissue below nephrotic? If they believed in love, then how could they submit their beloved to such torture? That was an act of selfishness, the opposite of love.  

Arthur was sacrificing himself. The other heart tethered to him beat fast, then sank. It bellowed. It grieved. It wished only to know how Arthur’s skin felt, how his eyes lit in the midday sun. But the image they constructed of him would forever be more beautiful than reality. What Arthur was was pain. All he could give was a revenant’s infallible faith in the absolute lack of a kind, just governing force. 

He loved that unmet person more than they could know. He did this for them. 

 

* * *

 

**Minutes**  

 

Though still on the beak of the horizon, the train was eager to announce itself. Arthur stepped forward, bringing his weekend bag to the yellow line with his wingtip. Stiff cotton brushed against his silken sleeve. Arthur did not look up to greet his partner with a monosyllabic, “Cobb.”  

“Arthur.” The PASIV’s long-term effects were only just starting to come to light; the residue that stuck with its users was considered an exciting niche for a scientific mind to make valuable discoveries. The latest confirmed that while deep diving was already a known danger, simply to use and use often disrupted the brain’s spatial order. What a dream might have hidden in its ambiguity, reality could not. So accustomed was Cobb to searching through that fog that the real word bombarded him whenever he returned. Details distracted him, especially those he deemed misplaced; Cobb looked at Arthur and immediately saw the bandage peeking from his sleeve as if it was as apparent as the time of day. “What’s with the bandage?” he asked as he pulled a pair of shades from his jacket pocket and unfolded them. 

“Hm?” Arthur turned his wrist over to look at the tight wrappings as if he’d forgotten they were even there — he hadn’t. He knew the timer’s weight on his arm like he knew his die; to relinquish his timer put him off kilter. “I burned myself.” 

“Ah. Monoco-degree?” The hotel had to evacuate because Arthur couldn’t figure out the stove. The smoke lingered with him for days.

“Little Italy,” where he bled profusely while cutting zucchini. 

They proceeded into the four seater cabin, their third man had yet to come — Cobb assured him he would be there. He only asked that Arthur have a little faith. 

As they hooked into the PASIV, blurred hills turned into a whirl of coins chucked from a machine’s mouth. 

 

* * *

 

**Seconds**

 

Arthur’s senses overloaded. In between flashes of good taste (dark wood panels and cream colored walls) was blinking neon that directed attention to the stacked games of chance that clicked and whirred when a body moved into proximity. Arthur pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose; his lenses muted the candy colored landscape into rich sienna.

The target was a rotund Georgian wearing snakeskin boots. He preened the tip of his mustache between thumb and index, his hair so light it was nearly white. 

The projections around scowled when he approached, stepping smoothly between to sidle up to the target’s side, “Your meeting for six o’ clock tomorrow evening has been confirmed.” Moore nodded without sparing him a glance. He was engaged by the dealer’s confident strokes; the target watched the dealer’s deft hands as they split the deck, neatened them into a pile and then drew two hands off the top. Moore hissed. A red queen and a two of diamonds added up to twelve. He thought of his win/lose odds, then told the dealer to hit him again. Like that, Arthur’s role within the dream was accepted; he was Moore’s employee, a glorified assistant. 

The dealer drew another ten for Moore — too high — the dealer won the round. Arthur leaned in again, “Sir, your wife is waiting in the dining hall,” and she had been waiting for the past half an hour.  

The target looked over at him, flared his nostrils and then grumbled, “All right -- one more game, prissy-britches,” to which Arthur nodded. He shuffled through screens on the tablet in his hand, pretending to slip the man’s appointment to a later slot, like a single contingency in the day could ruin his entire schedule. Moore’s perception of his work confided as much; the itinerary filled with all the things that Moore should have been doing and wished he had already done. Each passing second saw another item devoured by the bloated time suck: gambling. The items that most itched at Moore slipped by until he growled in frustration -- another loss. 

Arthur leaned in. “We really must be going,” before all of Moore’s life was consumed by his vices. Arthur had no desire to fish him from his pleasures, this plan did not incorporate psychological prying. 

Moore sighed agreement. The tables were unkind today. He turned, paused, and then smiled, revealing a crooked canine. “Looks like you’re a hella lot luckier than me, huh fellow?” Moore pounded him on the back hard enough to force Arthur forward a step. He was confounded by the comment until Moore added, “A tidy confirmation will cheer the missus up, all right.” 

Then he felt it, a lead weight strapped to his wrist. The timer. Ticking. Showing only minutes left on the clock.

 

A gulf of neon noise separated the restaurant from the casino, providing intimacy for its patrons. It struck a fine balance between gaudy and demure; in its inauthenticity it sang of taste and where it showed its true nature, an indulgent florescence skewered pretentious leanings. And the blonde woman with big eyes, big hair, and big breasts squeezed into satin, was entirely of this world; she was a mockery of subtlety and yet she possessed an alien sophistication. As they neared, he could see her slight mouth simmering in the low light. The blood diamonds clutching to her long, tip-tapping fingers, glittered. 

Underneath the haughty show was their fill-in, a man named Eames. 

Cobb assured him he was the best of his trade -- several times. On the the sixth iteration, Arthur started to believe this man was, in the least, capable. 

“I’m surprised you’ve still got your hat, you’ve been at the tables so long.” 

Moore sat down, huffing a little as he pulled his seat in close enough for the apex of his belly to touch the edge of the table. “Honey, they nearly had me.”

“I ordered for you, green stuff,” she waved at a passing waiter. 

“You know I hate the taste.” 

“I know,” she cocked a brow. Turning to the waiter she summoned, she said, “We’re ready for our first course.” 

When their food arrived, they made small confirmations between bites. Travel plans. Appointments. Arthur stepped in once to remind them of their two o’ clock tomorrow afternoon: a matinee show with old friends. 

“I can’t,” Moore said, “I’ve got a meeting.” Arthur glanced at the tablet, a meeting with unnamed persons threatened to squeeze the original event out of its place. 

“A meeting?” she stiffened. “Benjamin, you have not brought your business with you on our vacation.” 

“There was no other time. Honey, really, I wouldn’t without absolute necessity —“

“Hah!” She put down her fork so it clattered against the plate, a couple from a nearby table glanced over to assess the disruption before shyly turning back to their meals. “Ha. Ha. Ha, so very funny Ben. The joke’s on me, isn’t it? All I ask for is a week without your… your _games_! All your cahooting in the middle of the night! And those phone calls to our home — “ 

“Shh -- lower your _voice_ , god damn!”

Her eyes narrowed to opulent slits, “what are you hiding from me?” she hissed.

“There are no secrets between us, honey — stop being so damn dramatic.”

She huffed, pushing against the edge of the table to sit rigid in the chair, as far from the target as possible. 

Moore examined the creases of her face, deciding after a half minute of silence that it was worthwhile entertaining his wife’s tantrum. 

“Melissa,” he reached for her hand, grazing her knuckles with his fingertips. She balled them into fists, then unfurled as he soothed her with words too soft for Arthur to hear. The pink of her cheeks extended past her cherry blush. She glanced away, only to be brought back by the gentle urging of his thumb against her jaw. 

To be privy to this moment felt somehow sacrosanct; Arthur looked away, embarrassed by his brazen peeping, until they returned to tame subjects: showtimes, the weather, and a boutique of particular interest. 

 

The feathery dancing girls kicked high in quick succession, glitter flaking off their taut thighs. As they fanned the dyed ostrich feathers strapped to their backs like plucky wings, Melissa excused herself. A man built like a slab of concrete moved to escort her, but Arthur stepped in, raising his hand to stop him. “I’ll go,” and the concrete slab nodded, his attention back on the jiggle of the women’s exposed buttocks. 

“All that wine,” Melissa flushed, “You hit forty and it goes right down the drain, I tell ya.” Past the rows of the bedazzled, Arthur offered his hand to help Melissa up shallow steps. Upon clearing the obstacle, he leaned in. 

“All clear.” The subconscious was subsumed by its own fascination: the girls built like Barbies, blue-eyed and long-haired. Neither Moore nor his guards paid them mind. Melissa nodded, following Arthur’s long strides for the door.

The darkness sheltered them, but Arthur checked for pursuers and curious glances both. The former had yet to sniff them out and the latter was relegated to the innocent curiosity of strangers. They entered the elevator, a decorous, gold-plated box with a square of plush carpet underfoot. Arthur pressed the floor button, shifting its round, jutting form to a fluorescent yellow.

The woman’s accent dropped its sweet southern tone at the elevator’s confirmative chime, moving closer to Eames’ natural voice. It bore a husky propriety reminiscent of Oxford British. “The safe is in the bedroom,” she said as she searched her oversized envelope clutch for her key card.

“I checked the inside while we were up there — told him I had a pair of earrings I didn’t trust the maids with. There’s definitely something in there — and darling, it’s _so-very-fat_.” 

Arthur checked his watch. It was 6:45 PM or six minutes until the timer stopped. He found the timer’s proclamation wanting; in six minutes he would still be hooked into the PASIV. In nine, they would kick into the real world. In fifteen, they would scatter — dispersing themselves across the French Quarter like crumbs. His guilt was out of sync.  

Melissa tried twice to open the safe before it popped, revealing the bespoke earrings, a dazzling raspberry that caught the overhead lights on its rim, and a manilla folder with a stack of papers inside. Arthur grabbed the folder. 

“All this? We don’t have time,” he flicked through the stack, skimmed for anything relevant, but the documents seemed equally verbose, equally dangerous. 

Melissa tutted, “My, my, it seems my husband tells me nothing. Perhaps I should consider divorce?” Arthur tried not to roll his eyes, but there was nothing that could stop the wry _Mm_ that squeezed between his lips. Melissa smiled. 

“Read,” he muttered as he crossed to a nearby armchair. “Our client said this guy’s a smuggler, look for anything related.” 

 

Turned pages filled the silence until Arthur came upon tender confessions he wished he hadn’t. “Did you know?” it took Melissa a moment to register his voice, but when she looked up, Arthur held a piece of paper out for her. 

She squinted at the text and then she mouthed them as she read, but Arthur could only pick out the shapes of _toe, ass,_ and _leather_ on her lips _._ Arthur returned his attention to the documents in his hand, reading the same line repeatedly in his anticipation for Melissa’s repulsion, but she said, “I had an idea,” as she set the paper on the end table between them. 

“You had an idea.” And though Arthur avoided an inquiring inflection, Melissa took it as the question it was. _Did you know? Did he make you do it?_

“His type like it _off_ and they like it rough. I had an _idea._ ”

Silence. Warmth crept from Arthur’s ears. They returned to their separate documents. 

 

Minutes later, Melissa’s drawl returned, fully embraced, “Oh, my darlin’s got a whole lotta tricks, he does.”

Arthur searched Melissa’s maniac grin for a comprehensible translation, but it came in the form of that lowered tone. Melissa transformed from belle to yankee socialite. Her lipstick stretched thin as she licked her index finger to turn the page. “One for the acquisition of his product and one for its transportation.” 

Arthur leapt from his seat to read the text from over Melissa’s shoulder. As Melissa said, the pages detailed the crux of Mr. Moore’s operation. He moved banned chemical components used in scientific research (and drug production) through military compounds by dealing with the right people. He offered them a portion of his product for their research, allowing those military bodies to keep out of foreign affairs while still acquiring the more obscure items they required. “This is it,” Arthur said, nodding. 

It was then that they caught each other’s eyes. A tinny 8-bit sounded, they both looked at his timer, then turned their gazes back upon one another. The wife had gone, in her place was a man with slicked back hair, a dark shadow around his jaw, and a fruity suit. 

They locked eyes, it felt impossible to look away. Arthur’s heart raced. He had always had a bad feeling about Eames, like he would bring them more trouble than help. Now he knew his intuition served him well. His breath hitched, he moved his lips in search of words to explain himself, but what could he say? He tried an apology, it was the only thing he truly was: sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he tried, but their silence preceding that lie only highlighted its dishonesty. 

A bullet of sweat formed on his brow; he saw Eames’ lips part, his tongue pressed against his bottom-front teeth. He was about to make a sound that would make a word that would fall behind several more of its kind to form a question, part of a line of inquiry Arthur had no intention of answering. He pushed himself to stand before the first word could fully escape and then walked three paces towards the living room. “Where’s Cobb?” 

A good question, even if it was used to dodge another. It was then that they heard a knock on the door. Arthur looked through the peephole to see Cobb in a fishbowl. Eager to be saved, he turned the knob, swinging the door wide. “Finally. What took so —“ 

Mal was a flashed image drowned by the white bloom from her gun.  

Arthur unraveled like a ball of yarn. Spinning, spinning until his contents were loose and floating in space all around him. The floor underneath them subsided. A pleasurable warmth enclosed his forearm. 

He woke and then once again surrendered to a fall. To his surprise, the eyes of Melissa, now Eames, accompanied him down. Dark green like heavy canopies acting like a shrug against worse weather. He thought he smelled oak. He thought he tasted rain recently rolled off a young leaf. 

Those eyes could not guess how imperative it was to detach — right away and with the utmost gravity — the hand that caressed the fabric of his shirt could not know the leanings of his waist, they couldn’t run through his hair, now lush, but soon to be thin. If those eyes wished to encourage pleasing meanderings through forests, then never could they consummate, spatially or otherwise, for in several months the woods of those eyes would be grey, leafless.  

And yet, Arthur knew that this…this was always meant to happen and that they would suffer fate’s cruelty. 

 

 


End file.
